A Simple Christmas

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Rosalyn became much too aware of the tall young man in the red flannel shirt and tight jeans who smelled fresh from a shower. He seemed to take up more than his share of the counter space as he invited the next person in line to step in front of him. She tried to concentrate on removing the consignment tags from the items, but Marcus’s effortless banter with the customers distracted her.

  “These are nice-looking tooled leather wallets,” he remarked as his fingers danced over the cash register’s keys. “I’m going to have to shop here if they carry stuff for guys!”

  The ladies in the line laughed, charmed by Marcus’s teasing. Rosalyn noticed how polite he was as he thanked each customer and invited her to return—as though he’d had a personality transplant since he’d come into the store a few days earlier. Somehow she managed to keep up with bagging for both Nora and Marcus, so the lines moved faster for the next several minutes.

  By the time the six ladies Rosalyn had helped made their way to the checkout counter, they’d chosen four of her wreaths and they’d also latched on to a set of Christmas dishes, two of Nora’s Thanksgiving banners, an embroidered tablecloth, and a hand-carved Nativity set. Rosalyn found a sturdy box and carefully wrapped and packed the dishes, which were decorated with simple sprigs of holly. To her surprise, Marcus stepped up beside her and began rolling the wooden figures from the Nativity set in tissue paper.

  “I’ve never seen a manger scene that had Amish folks in it,” he remarked. He admired the wooden Mary and Joseph figures before wrapping them. “Wow, look at the detail in her dress. It’s painted like a quilt—and the star on top of the manger looks like a quilt piece, too.”

  Rosalyn cleared her throat nervously. “Our bishop, Tom Hostetler, carves and paints these Nativity sets,” she said. “He works at them during the winter between the morning and evening shifts of milking his cows.”

  “I think the wise men, holding an ear of corn, a chicken, and a pail of milk, are the cutest pieces,” said the lady who’d bought the set. “My kids—and grandkids—will cherish this Nativity for years to come. I’m so glad I found it!”

  “We are, too,” Marcus said, flashing her a smile. He stuffed tissue paper into another large box, placed the stable in it, and gently arranged the wrapped figurines inside. “I hope your family will spend a lot of time together this Christmas, enjoying this Nativity scene. Thanks for shopping with us today.”

  “We’re so glad we came!” Sandi said as Nora finished ringing up her purchases. “It was worth driving all the way from Chillicothe.”

  “We’re delighted you took the time to visit us,” Nora replied graciously. “All of our items are handcrafted by Plain folks who live in central Missouri, you know.”

  “We’ll be back,” Rae called over her shoulder as the six of them started toward the door with their bags and boxes. “And thank you, young lady, for showing us your wonderful wreaths.”

  Rosalyn gave her a little wave. “My pleasure,” she replied shyly.

  Marcus strode quickly along a side aisle so he could hold the door open for the ladies, and then he went outside to help them put their packages in their car. Only one customer remained at the checkout, so Rosalyn went over to tidy the refreshment table—and to catch her breath, after working alongside Marcus. She was amazed at the way he’d helped out, and he’d known about the computerized cash register. He’d done a very careful job of wrapping the Nativity scene, as well.

  “What a nice young man,” the customer in front of Nora said. “It does my heart good to know that in a world with gang fights and crimes involving fellows his age, we still have some around who help other people without being asked.”

  “Marcus hasn’t been in Willow Ridge very long,” Nora said as she placed the lady’s items in a sack. “I was glad he came along in the nick of time and knew how to operate my cash register—and as you mentioned, his courtesy was a breath of fresh air, too. Denki for shopping with us today!”

  As the lady walked between the display tables toward the door, Nora caught Rosalyn’s eye. “What did you think of Marcus’s astounding turnaround?” she whispered as she came to rearrange the cookies that remained on the half-empty tray. “When he first walked in, I was just praying he wouldn’t shoot off his mouth while so many customers were in the store.”

  “Same here,” Rosalyn agreed. When the bell jangled, she didn’t have to look to know that Marcus had reentered the store. Was her imagination working overtime, or did he have a real sense of presence? He’d seemed so comfortable and competent among English folks.

  Nora filled a cup with cider and picked up the biggest decorated cookie on the platter. “Marcus, I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she said as she offered him the refreshments. “I take back the critical things I said when you came in here the other day. If you have spare time to work here during the holidays, let’s sign you on.”

  Marcus downed the cider. “I appreciate your offer, Nora, but I suspect Wyatt would rather I didn’t work regular hours here,” he said as he admired the large snowman sugar cookie. “On the other hand, maybe taking a second job would prove to him that I’m serious about working and paying down my credit card debt.”

  Rosalyn blinked. She hadn’t expected him to admit that he owed money—and it’s just one of many reasons you have no interest in him, the little voice in her head reminded her. When he approached the refreshment table, she stepped away to straighten the displays on the tables and shelves around the store.

  “Did I understand correctly that you made the wreaths those ladies bought, Rosalyn?”

  Her cheeks flared with heat as she focused on the table linens she was refolding. Marcus sounded sincerely interested in her handiwork—and she hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t thought he even knew her name. “Jah, I did,” she said meekly. “You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when they bought so many of them—and ordered another one.”

  “Rosalyn’s sisters, Loretta and Edith Detweiler, made the rag rugs and baskets you were ringing up, too,” Nora put in as she carried another set of Christmas dishes from the storeroom. “And the walnut furniture in the front of the store was made by the Brenneman brothers, who also live nearby—and the fellow who made those wallets used to live down the hill, but he’s moved to Morning Star.”

  “Your cousin Ben made the pretty fireplace doors,” Rosalyn said, pointing toward the back of the store. “When he’s not shoeing horses, he makes garden gates and other decorative metal pieces to sell here.”

  “A man of many talents, my cousin Ben is,” Marcus remarked under his breath. He came to stand beside Rosalyn, studying her with eyes that were an unsettling shade of pale green. “Do you make the bases for your wreaths, or do you buy them and cut the greenery from all the evergreens around here?”

  Rosalyn was suddenly stricken speechless. “Um, jah, I make them,” she rasped. Why had she offered that information about Preacher Ben’s welded items, thinking Marcus would be interested in what she had to say? The nearness of him—the shine in his pale green eyes and the way his dark hair dipped over his forehead—had her so ferhoodled that she would surely make a fool of herself if she said anything else. She focused on restacking some tablecloths and embroidered napkins, relieved when he moved away from her after several nerve-wracking moments.

  “May I ask a favor, Nora?” Marcus said as he ambled toward the checkout counter. “I was hoping I could log on to your Wi-Fi and check my email. The apartment above McKenzie’s barn doesn’t have cable or Internet access.”

  “Be my guest,” Nora replied. “Click on the Simple Gifts network, and the password is ‘Redhead twenty-twelve.’”

  Rosalyn didn’t understand a thing they were talking about, yet she listened closely. Marcus took the slender silver object from beneath the checkout counter—it resembled Nora’s laptop computer, except it was smaller—and opened it.

  He seems awfully comfortable with electronic gadgets and email, her little voice warned. Such attachments to
the English life mean he’ll never consider returning to the Old Order or joining the church, so why bother with him?

  She glanced at his handsome face, which was aglow from the screen he was watching raptly. “This is interesting, to see so many different Wi-Fi networks in the mostly Amish town of Willow Ridge,” he remarked. “Here’s McKenzie’s trailer, and Luke’s mill, and your store . . .”

  Nora, who had begun checking sales on the main cash register, glanced over and then pointed toward his screen. “Oliveri Design is Rebecca, the gal who does all our websites—”

  “Wyatt’s much younger girlfriend?” Marcus asked.

  “We all depend on her expertise when it comes to web presence,” Nora put in quickly. “The nurse who runs our little clinic, Andy Leitner, has special permission from Bishop Tom to have Internet access for medical connections. He used to be English and converted to Old Order Amish to marry one of our local girls.”

  Marcus’s dark eyebrows rose as he considered this. “That’s different—a male nurse who went Plain, eh? So who owns this network called Reel Money?”

  Nora’s brow furrowed. “I have no idea. I’ve never noticed that one before.”

  “Well, anyway—thanks for letting me access my mail,” Marcus said. “It’s handy that you Mennonites allow Internet access, so I can use my iPad to keep up with my friends and what’s going on the real world.”

  “Consider it your pay for helping out today,” Nora teased as she returned to checking the cash register.

  The jangle of the bell above the door alerted them to the arrival of three customers, and Rosalyn was happy to greet them. Computers and other gadgets would forever remain a mystery to her, but talking face-to-face with folks—even if she was still a bit shy around the English—was something she could handle.

  “Gut afternoon and welcome to our open house,” she said with a hopeful smile. “Is there something we can help you find today? We’ve got cookies and hot cider, too.”

  The women inhaled the heady fragrance of the cinnamon and spices, nodding.

  “Oh, this store’s every bit as wonderful as I imagined,” one of them said as she gazed raptly at the array of merchandise. “By the time we’ve looked around, I bet we’ll need those refreshments—”

  “To give us strength enough to carry our purchases to the car!” another gal chimed in.

  “Take your time,” Rosalyn said with a nod. “Let us know if we can answer any questions. All of our items are made by Plain crafters who live around this area.”

  As the ladies started down an aisle, admiring what they saw, Nora flashed Rosalyn a thumbs-up. It gave her a sense of accomplishment, to have the owner of such a wonderful shop appear to be proud of her—for the help she gave customers, and for the wreaths that were selling faster than Rosalyn could make them.

  She took mental inventory of the supplies she had in her room at home. After Loretta and I redd up the kitchen tonight, I can make the bases for those two wreath orders, Rosalyn thought. It’ll be something to do besides wonder why the words Real Money make me feel prickly inside, even though I have no idea what they mean.

  Chapter Seven

  As Marcus sat at Ben and Miriam’s table on Thanksgiving, surrounded by his cousins, Miriam’s daughters, and their families, he felt acutely aware of being the only unattached person present—which made him a target for speculative glances during the huge meal. In the week since he’d arrived in Willow Ridge, however, he’d learned a few things about most of the folks around the long, extended table, which had given him plenty to think about.

  As he passed a large glass casserole containing brilliant yellow-orange slices of glazed acorn squash, Marcus’s gaze wandered to Rebecca. From his vantage point at the end of the table opposite Ben, he had a clear view of all the women and kids on one side and all the men across from them. The fact that Rebecca was dressed Plain today piqued his curiosity. She’d stated that she had no intentions of joining the Old Order, so what was she trying to prove? And how did Wyatt feel about her dusty blue cape dress, white kapp, and the way her hair was pulled demurely back from her face?

  When Rebecca nailed Marcus with her crystal-blue eyes, he felt like the proverbial deer in the headlights. With eighteen people present, the big kitchen rang with two or three ongoing conversations, yet he felt surrounded by a bubble of expectant silence.

  “You might as well ask me whatever’s on your mind,” Rebecca finally said. “You’re surprised that I’m dressed like my sisters, Rachel and Rhoda, ain’t so?”

  The lilt of her Amish accent caught him off guard. Was this the same attractive English woman—somewhere near his age—he’d met at Wyatt’s place last week? “Well, yeah,” he admitted as he accepted a basket of warm dinner rolls that smelled heavenly.

  Across the table from her, Wyatt leaned forward to join the conversation. “Believe me, the first time I came here to meet all these Hooleys, Brennemans, and Leitners, I was not prepared to see Rebecca dressed Amish,” he said. “But the look becomes her, don’t you think?”

  She could be wearing broadfall trousers, a guy’s shirt, and a broad-brimmed hat and she would look good. Marcus blinked at this thought and knew better than to express it. “It’s a little, um, unsettling to see three of her,” he hedged.

  Miriam, seated to Ben’s left, laughed out loud. “What was really unsettling was the sight of Rebecca when she first returned to Willow Ridge to find us,” she said above the conversation Luke, Ira, and Ben were having. “Can you imagine her in spiky black hair, wearing all manner of little chains and black clothes—and even black fingernails?”

  Oh, yes, I can . . .

  “But seeing my dear child alive after nineteen years of believing she was dead,” Miriam continued in a voice that thrummed with emotion, “well, it was a gift I’ll never stop thanking God for. The fact that she’s English matters little, considering she’s alive and she’s come home.”

  “You said that just right, Mamma,” one of Miriam’s other daughters chimed in. Marcus wasn’t sure if it was Rachel or Rhoda, because both of them were tending babies between putting food on their plates and passing the serving bowls. “And Rebecca’s had a lot to do with how well our Plain businesses are doing, what with her being a website designer.”

  “Hear, hear,” a dark-bearded fellow agreed with a nod. “I could run the clinic without Internet access, but a few times when patients were having complications, I was mighty glad I could contact the hospital in New Haven for assistance. Rebecca’s a fine receptionist, too.”

  Marcus nodded, recalling from the initial introductions that this man, Andy Leitner, had been English—and divorced—before marrying one of Rebecca’s sisters. It surprised him that the Old Order leaders here were progressive enough to accept such a man. Most Amish communities would’ve forbidden him to associate with one of their girls, much less marry her.

  Rebecca waved off their compliments, seeming more interested in the platter of roasted meat she’d just received. “Your duck smells divine, Rhoda,” she said, glancing at her identical sister.

  “And we’ve got Mamma’s baked chicken, too,” her sister Rachel remarked, nodding at the platter she held. “This is truly a feast to be thankful for.”

  “All the better because it’s a family effort,” Miriam put in happily. She, too, was placing morsels of food on a small plate where her toddler, Bethlehem, sat humming as she stuffed a handful of noodle casserole into her mouth.

  For a moment the whole big-Amish-family thing overwhelmed Marcus, because it had been a few years since he’d gathered at a table with his parents and siblings and their little kids. In some ways he missed the noise and conversations of their gatherings—but he’d grown very tired of his dat’s lectures and increasingly critical remarks. He took a heaping spoonful of green bean casserole, passed the pan to Will Gingerich on his left, and then accepted a big bowl of glazed carrots from Luke.

  Is it me, or does this scene feel too happy to be believable? Marcus wonder
ed skeptically. He glanced furtively at Will, who seemed subdued compared to the others—but maybe that was because he was awfully young to be a widower. Marcus wondered if Will and Savilla had plans for later in the day. He didn’t ask, however, so Will wouldn’t suspect his interest in the attractive young woman.

  He took a big spoonful of mashed potatoes and offered the bowl to Gingerich. “Where you from, Will?”

  Will took his time putting potatoes on his plate, as though thinking about his answer. “Grew up near Roseville, several miles from here,” he replied. “My two brothers squeezed me off the farm, so I don’t go back much. Holiday dinners get tricky, you know? I’m thankful Miriam sets a place for me.”

  “I know something about that,” Marcus agreed. He saw no need to mention that he was the cause of the tension at his family’s table, because Gingerich had probably heard about his situation from the local grapevine—or directly from Luke and Ira. “Sometimes I think it’s best to stay single to avoid the entanglements of a large family.”

  Will let out a humorless laugh. “Jah, you’ve got that right.”

  Marcus ladled gravy over his potatoes and passed the gravy bowl to Will, waiting for whatever juicy tidbit he seemed ready to share. Gingerich seemed lost in his own thoughts, however, so Marcus tuned in to the conversation near the other end of the table. He couldn’t miss the intensity of Luke and Ben’s male voices beneath the Leitner kids’ answers to Miriam’s questions about school.

  “—can’t believe Cornelius hasn’t come clean,” Luke was saying with a shake of his head. “Why hasn’t Bishop Tom read him the riot act—ordered him on his knees? This has been going on for months.”

  Ben shrugged, cutting into a piece of duck. “You can’t force a man to confess,” he pointed out. “Cornelius is apparently obeying the bishop’s instructions—ordering his clock parts through the mail, and attending grief counseling.”